Dear Professor Dumbledore
by Albus Paulson
Summary: Harry has written Albus Dumbledore a very disturbing letter. I meant this to be a missing moment in between OOTP and HBP. Starts out dark, with a side of an unwittingly mainpulative Dumbledore. Has been abandoned for lack of inspiration.
1. A rant

Dear Professor Dumbledore,

I have a very long memory, a _very_ long memory, you know.

I remember that time when I was three, when Dudley broke my arm after I snuck out of my cupboard and tried to play with his toy trains.

I remember when Dudley ran into Aunt Petunia's treasured blue china vase, breaking it, and blamed me. I didn't get to eat that week, being locked in my cupboard and all.

You told me not two weeks ago that you have watched and guarded me since the day I was placed with my relatives - bearing in mind that these relatives hated my parents and all they stood for.

Yet no one came when I cried in the night, praying and hoping, holding out in vain, for the cold embrace of the darkness, of Death, for surely not even death was as bad as daily beatings, starvation, and slave labor.

No one came when I told my teachers of the beatings. They treated me no better than the rest did, as the freak I was raised to be.

No one came to help me down when Ripper chased me up that tree when I was eight.

No one came to heal my wounds when Vernon went too far, nearly killing me at least twice when he tried to 'beat the magic out of me.'

I was a stray puppy then, a little dog that had been beaten for wanting affection, for wanting love, for wanting a little kindness shown to me. Even that was denied me as the years passed. I grew, as both humans and dogs did and do, from underfed whelp to thin adolescent.

I was made, not born, forged in the fires of Hell itself. My Hell was Number Four, Privet Drive, something that I made sure to remind you of, Professor, at every opportunity, from the beginning to not two weeks ago. I was made, shaped in that dratted Trelawney's prophecy.

You told me that love was the power the Dark Lord knows not, but how can I use it if I cannot remember experiencing it? You told me that I went to my aunt's house, the place where my mother's blood dwells, because there I could not be harmed by Voldemort, but your wards were based on the premise that she would love me as her own.

I suppose it goes without saying that she didn't.

Who knew that I would need protection from my own family, my own kin?

_You_ did old man. _You_ did, after that fist few months, perhaps the first few years.

How could you not?

No child wears rags if they are loved, and living in a prosperous household.

No child is beaten when they don't do chores that would break a grown man.

No child is much too small for their age because of malnutrition, again in that affluent home.

Yet, and yet, you knew and did _nothing_.

Merlin knows how I survived a decade with those people and still remain a little normal.

I was the cringing dog you wanted, the dog you were to train for War.

In my first year, how could you not have known which of your staff wanted the Stone? I could virtually _feel_ the evil rolling off Quirrell, as I look back on it in my memory. I ignored it then, as I believed in Snape's guilt, making me blind to everyone else.

When I asked you of my destiny, that afternoon in the hospital wing, you only patted my head and told me I was a good, if young, boy. I had done my job, and I had done it well. I was content with that, for I saw you then as a kindly grandfather figure.

In my second year, you knew of my Parseltongue, and all the symptoms of the petrified people. How did a Basilisk, a great serpent, manage to escape your sight?

I returned to you as a grimy warrior of the light, loyal to you, your soldier that had fought against impossible odds and triumphed once more. You saw my sword, and your phoenix, and the Diary. I had won once more.

I left your office without pressing you for information, thinking only of shower, bed, and the Feast, in that order.

My third year was the only one in which I didn't meet Voldemort face to face. Instead I get to learn of my parents' betrayal, and betrayer, information that had been kept from me.

Surprised? You shouldn't be.

That year I grew from a pup, a cub, into a strong young dog, a mastiff trained to not bite the master's hand. Is it any surprise that you were the master, Professor?

I took your word for it when you said that I couldn't free my godfather. After all, how could I fight you in your infinite wisdom? Only you, after all, could have been the one to tell me about the uses of a Pensieve.

My fourth year was the trial of a champion, your champion. I hate publicity, always have, yet you forced me to compete in that blasted tournament.

After all, what better way is there to see how good your fighting dog is than to pit it against others that are stronger than he? I was doomed, yet you made me fight anyway.

And I fought admirably, if not willingly. After all, this was part of my purpose, my life. What more or less could I do, or be?

Oh, right, I could _live_.

But how could I do that, if I had only known a cage my entire life? First was my cupboard, then my fame, then the knowledge of my fate. I will only be free of my cage when Voldemort is gone, or so I would like to believe.

I tried, you know; I really tried, to see what I had done wrong last year. You, my master, were ignoring me. I had gone back to being the whipped dog I was in my childhood, longing for a touch that wasn't made in cruelty.

I tried to learn Occlumency, but having someone yell, "Clear your mind!" before breaking down my defenses with a tank doesn't really count as teaching me.

I tried to keep a stranglehold on my anger, but really, I'm not all that surprised. Voldemort was breaking in to my mind on a nearly nightly basis, and really, Snape's bludgeoning didn't make me feel any better. Who can blame a teenage boy for something so far beyond the realm of his control?

The world can, as I found out. The world has made me a lauded champion one moment, a deranged attention-seeking maniac the next. They were looking to the wrong person.

Does Voldemort give interviews?

Sirius died through a combination of my own stupidity, a Veil in the wrong place, and a very lucky shot from Bellatrix Lestrange. Therefore, I have come to the conclusion that I am not at fault for the entirety.

You, _Headmaster_, are at fault for my failure in Occlumency, and at fault for Sirius' death.

How, you may ask? It is very simple thing.

Had I known of the prophecy, I would not have gone to the DOM.

Had I known why Voldemort wants to kill me, I would not have gone completely nuts in Snape's office.

Had I known of your meddling, I would have left you long ago.

You'd be short a weapon against an evil of your own creation. I use **your** in the plural, meaning the Wizarding World.

But you, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore, provided the world their weapon.

You, Headmaster of Hogwarts, allowed that weapon to be shaped with the cruelty of his peers.

You, Leader of the Order of the Phoenix, led that weapon to the refiner's fire, the one meant to break him of his will and bind him to you, by way of his godfather's death.

You, Lord of the Light, permitted this weapon to cringe like a beaten, cringing hound beneath your boot as he was informed of his destiny.

You, Supreme Mugwump of the Wizengamot, allowed justice to be subverted, time and again.

And to what end, the defeat of Voldemort?

Did you give any thought to what would happen to your weapon after the foe was conquered?

If you had, I can only shudder at what went through your warped consciousness, old man. Did you wish to lead me unto my death? Did you disbelieve the Prophecy enough to believe that if I died, you could defeat him? Did you believe that I would become a servant too powerful for the master?

I can only wonder, and tremble at whatever fate you had in store for me.

Call off all bets, Professor, for your dog has broken his chain. I'm loose, and I'm going to come back and bite you in whatever way I can, whether it is by pranking you until you die of exhaustion, proving your guilt through the Ministry, or simply killing you myself.

I like that last one. It would be a fitting revenge, a punishment that matched the crime, for the one who has destroyed all of my hope for a normal life.

You were scared enough of Voldemort to let a _child_ fight him. What will you think of me, when I grow into adulthood?

Will you fear me as the only one who is the threat to your power?

Attack me, and I will marshal my power like the drain before the tidal wave, and no city, man, or power will stand before me.

And you can blame only yourself for this change in me.

You can weep for the boy I once was, who believed in the goodness of men's hearts.

You can weep for the boy who burned Quirrell in a trial by fire, the one you lied to.

You can weep for the boy that killed a Basilisk, and nearly died in defense of others.

You can weep for the boy which had mercy upon his enemy's most destructive servant.

You can weep for the boy, a broken and bleeding youth, who had 'shouldered a grown wizard's burden' and found himself equal to it.

You can weep for the boy who trusted you, like he did only four others.

You can weep for that boy, for he is an incarnation of me that you shattered. He will not return.

Welcome to the future, Professor Dumbledore. It's a nasty one, but it's one of your own creations.

Sincerely,

Harry James Potter

Weapon Extraordinaire 

0

The Headmaster read the letter Harry sent him. Tears rolled down his face as he read the rant. As he finished the letter, he put his head in his hands. He wept for the boy he loved as a grandson, feeling as if his soul had been torn in two from grief.

This new Harry was one wrapped up in righteous anger.

He had known the Dursleys weren't kind to Harry, but he didn't know, or even have an inkling that their dislike reached so far.

He had known that Harry had slept in a cupboard at the time he had received his Hogwarts letter, but not that he had slept in the-the broom closet for his whole decade there!

He had known that Quirrell was after the stone, but had trusted in the protections around it, perhaps a little too much, but knowing that Voldemort was possessing the man was just beyond his sight.

He had known of the Basilisk, but not where the Chamber was, so he could have done nothing. Knowing of Tom's Diary had 'slipped under his radar,' so to speak; after all, who looks twice at a little girl's diary?

He did know of a betrayal in the Marauder's ranks, but the identity of the betrayer was believed to have been Sirius Black, and he didn't think twice about Sirius' lack of trial.

He truly had tried to get Harry out of the Tournament, but the rules didn't explore the possibility of someone being entered against their will. He comforted Harry as best he could, as Harry's headmaster, when he had returned from the Third Task broken and bleeding.

He had done what he thought was best last year, in the sight of the greater good. He had not given a thought to Harry's feelings on the matter, which was a grievous oversight on Albus' part. He was still kicking himself over that.

Sirius' death was a dire loss to the side of the Light, not only because of his skills in battle but his connection, his relationship, with Harry. It was that relationship that probably kept Harry sane.

And now he was gone, without even a body to bury.

Albus broke down and wept, cursing himself for treating Harry this way, and for what he might have unknowingly done to himself… and to the world.


	2. A reply

Albus Dumbledore pulled a few rolls of parchment and began to write a letter, a reply, and a confession. His hands shook violently, making his handwriting go from its normal loopy cursive to squiggly block letters.

**_Dear Harry,_**

**_I am sorry, Harry. I have failed you. I have hurt you in what I have done, which is much, and what I have not done, which is far greater._**

_**I trusted in the love that exists in those that share the bonds of blood. I was naïve to trust so much. I hoped that Petunia Dursley would see enough past her dislike of magic, and of her sister, to raise you as her own son, to give you what you needed.**_

_**I was wrong, as you know far better than I do.**_

_**I did watch over you, but the wards I placed upon the house at Privet Drive were made to watch for your harm by outside means, like being hit with a Muggle bus.**_

_Though Vernon and Dudley are each big enough to be considered a bus, _Albus thought before returning to his writing. Tears flowed from his eyes, soaking his lined face and beard as he wrote.

_**I was naïve to think that Petunia's blossoming dislike for her sister and magic would bear fruit in her care for you, torturing you far beyond what anyone should ever be forced to bear.**_

_**I thought that love, not hate, could only be given to you, Harry; you had that effect on everyone, from Sirius to Remus to myself.**_

**_As both Lily's parents and James' parents died not long before your birth, killed by Death Eaters, I became something of your surrogate grandfather. I had dinner with your parents, godfather, and Remus at least twice a week up until Peter betrayed them. I watched you during the times when they could not. Since you screeched every time Peter got near you, he wasn't a very good babysitter._**

Albus paused as he rummaged through his desk for a very old photograph. "Aha!" he murmured as he found the black-and white photo. It depicted Albus asleep on a couch, his silent snores making his moustache quiver ever-so-slightly. A baby – Harry – was curled up on Albus' chest, wrapping the long, silvery beard around him like a blanket as he slept peacefully.

Albus set the old photograph on his desk, as part of the letter he intended to send Harry.

_**I knew nothing of you wearing rags, at least not until Christmastime in your first year, when I saw you out of your robes for the first time. I was shocked then, and began to watch you and the Dursleys more closely.**_

_**I knew nothing of the Dursleys beating you until you were in the Hospital Wing after that confrontation with Quirrell and Voldemort, when Poppy did an average injury-viewing scan and found you had numerous old injuries. I resolved to pay closer attention to you over that summer.**_

_**I knew that Quirrell was after the Stone, but I knew nothing of his possession by Voldemort. I am not omniscient, Harry, and I make errors as easily as the next man. I trusted too much in the protections placed around the Stone. I had no idea that you would go down the trapdoor. I was oblivious to the fact that your bravery and conscience would not rest until injustice was vanquished and evil defeated.**_

**_I was more proud of you than I can ever say, that afternoon in the Hospital Wing. You had defeated our mutual enemy, and with only scratches to show for it. Your purity of heart had saved you then. _**

**_I was more frightened of you, of what you might have become, than I can ever voice. Much comes to these old ears, and I heard whispers of your hatred for the Muggles you live with. I mistook this for a dislike of all Muggles, and when you asked me "Why?" I couldn't answer you, in fear of what may have happened had you known of the Power-He-Knows-Not._**

**_I was relieved beyond measure when you let the matter drop. I don't know what I would have done if you had turned into another Tom Riddle. It would have destroyed me._**

_**I watched you at the Dursleys that summer, or rather, Minerva did. She is a very pretty tabby cat, isn't she? She told me that after that fiasco with the Masons, no one saw you for a week-and-a-half. I was calmed from my panic at the thought of your being hurt when Molly Weasley sent me an owl, telling me that the Twins and Ron had rescued you. She also told me of the bars on you window, and how thin you were.**_

_**I cannot pretend that I was not worried. What had the Dursleys done to you?**_

**_You returned for your second year, struggling through that fool, Lockhart, and the rather embarrassing affections of Ginny Weasley._**

_**I admit I knew that a Basilisk was stalking the school, but Salazar had done his work quite well. He had made the snake a part of the School's defense system, and veiled the Chamber with many magics that prevented all but his own heir from finding it. Though you were not his heir, I believe that your Parseltongue allowed you access to the Chamber.**_

_**I could do nothing to save the students. I cannot tell you how much that hurt me.**_

_**I was bursting with pride that night – or early morning – in Professor McGonagall's office. I wasn't proud because you were loyal to me, or because you had triumphed against the Enemy once again. I was proud because you had put others before yourself.**_

**_To me, this proved that you were not a second Tom Riddle, and your questions on those similarities he has with you was the clincher. I let you walk out of the office to go to the Feast, secretly happy that you had not asked me of your destiny again. I felt a very strange emotion in regards to you, and the thought of inadvertently hurting you was painful to me. It was not a bad feeling, rather it brought me joy, but it was alien to me nonetheless._**

**_You came into your third year with the knowledge that Sirius Black was on the loose, and attempting to kill you. I saw you as you ran away from Privet Drive, scared and frightened out of your wits. I have to admit that I was very tense during those few hours that I had no idea where you were, and if you were safe._**

_**I pondered whether to tell you of your parents' betrayal. I had decided to do so on that Hogsmeade weekend around Christmas.**_

_**But that evening, at dinner, I saw you desolate. I had no idea what had happened, but I did not wish to add to your pain. Now I know that you had found out on your own.**_

**_I did not believe that the Ministry would let us bring in Pensieve evidence of Sirius' innocence. Fudge held the dominance in the Wizengamot, and in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. Even I could not have given Sirius a fair trial – even with the Pensieve evidence, and Veritaserum, Fudge could still order Sirius Kissed before I could say, "Lemon Drop."_**

_**The alien feeling I got the year before intensified, though I was still bamboozled as to what it could be…**_

**_I tried to get you freed from the Triwizard Tournament, but the rules were not written to let those who had been entered against their will leave. Really, I did try with all the weight of a persona I hate – the one of Albus Dumbledore, Order of Merlin 1st Class, Defeater of Grindlewald, and Lord of the Light. _**

**_I loathe it, as much as you hate the persona of Harry Potter, Boy Who Lived._**

_**We are much alike, you and I. We were both forced to defeat an enemy by a prophecy. We both had our families wiped out by said enemy. And we both hold alternately the world's love, and then the world's hate, on a whim.**_

_**I felt a kinship with you, alike to the one I share with my brother, but this one was slightly different. **_

**_I did what I believed was right last year. I thought that by giving Voldemort less of an incentive to possess you, he would stay away from your mind._**

_**I was wrong. Voldemort continued to ravage your mind as you slept, causing you pain. **_

_**I thought that Occlumency might help you, in your pain. Since I couldn't give you the lessons, I had to give them to Severus, as he was the only other Occlumens who could teach you. I thought that he might be able to ignore his loathing and dislike for James Potter and teach a teenager who needed the help.**_

_**I was wrong. Severus broke whatever mental shields you might have had in his rape of your mind. I left the Pensieve out for you so that Severus would stop the lessons.**_

Albus let his anger with Severus fade before he continued.

_**I agree in your sentiment that Sirius died through a combination of a Veil in a very inconvenient place, a timely Stunner from Lestrange, and stupidity.**_

**_I do not agree that the stupidity was your stupidity, however. It was mine, and mine alone. I had jailed Sirius in that terribly gloomy old house. I had kept him from contact with you, for the sake of his own safety. I had nearly broken his spirit, just as Death had broken his body._**

_**For that I cannot forgive myself.**_

_**I agree that I am responsible for your failure in Occlumency.**_

_**I agree that I am responsible for Sirius' death.**_

_**I agree that I am responsible for you and your friends going to the Department of Mysteries, and therefore for the injuries that they sustained there.**_

**_I agree that I am responsible for the cruelty you have suffered through the years. I am neither omnipotent nor omniscient, and did not know of most of it. What little I heard, however, made my skin crawl._**

_**You were blamed for Slytherin's loss of the House Cup in your first year, and probably took some gruff from disgruntled Slytherins for that. However, I am responsible for that. I did it because I wanted to see you smile at me. Childish, I know, but it was something I wanted for both your sake and mine.**_

_**You were blamed for the attacks against the various Houses in your second year. I know you took a lot of fear from others, as I listened in on many conversations in the Library after the ill-fated Dueling Club. I am at fault for that. Had I told the school of the basilisk, the governors would have closed the school, and I didn't want to send you back to the Dursleys.**_

**_You were lied to most of your third year, yet you took it with grace. I did what I thought would make you happiest, and that was keeping the biggest of the pains from you. I failed you in that._**

_**You were slandered in the press, and in the halls, during your fourth year and the Triwizard Tournament. I could easily have announced that you were a legitimate champion, and that you were entered against your own will. I thought that the slandering you took would increase tenfold, this time calling you 'Dumbledore's boy.' I didn't want to add to your pain.**_

**_You were dragged through the mud last year. My ignoring you didn't help. Had we presented a united front, so to speak, and been more open with each other, the press might have had a harder time getting us libeled. _**

_**All of the Professors have their favorites. Professor Sprout has Neville Longbottom, Professor McGonagall has Hermione Granger, Professor Flitwick has Ginny Weasley, and Professor Snape has Draco Malfoy.**_

**_I have come to realize that you, my favorite, didn't see or understand what those looks my colleagues give me are. I have overstepped the boundaries that most Professors used, and created my own. I no longer saw you as an exceptional student of mine that I had a soft spot for. I finally recognized the alien feeling that has grown as the years went by as a father's love for his child. I consider you to be my grandson, Harry, and in my will I have it written that you will become the Head of the House of Dumbledore upon my death, making you Harry James Dumbledore Potter-Black – if you accept it, that is. You have the right to refuse, and I won't be offended._**

**_I have wondered if you had noticed my presence near you, but now I think that you have not. I have watched you in the halls, during meals, during Quidditch practices and games, pretty much everywhere except for the bathrooms (No, I'm not that senile!)_**

_**In hopes of fixing our relationship,**_

_**Love,**_

_**Albus Dumbledore.**_


	3. Forgiveness

_**Dear Professor Dumbledore, **_

**_I was quite frankly astonished that you would even reply to my letter; much less that you would send me a courteous and forgiving reply. I must say that the day I wrote that letter, I had pulled three all-nighters in a row due to nightmares and Dudley was being perfectly horrible, but that does not excuse my accusations._**

_**I am sorry that I accused you of being a manipulative old son-of-a-gun. I really don't see you that way. I'm happy to know that you consider me your grandson, because I think of you as the Granddad I never had, the grandfather that everybody wants to have.**_

_**I am honored beyond belief. Now that I think on it, I know why I kept feeling someone's gaze on my back, and was always irritated and confused when I saw no one. You are a sneaky one, Professor. Bravo!**_

**_That picture you sent me – thank you, by the way – is now next to the one of my parents' wedding, a reminder of a happier time._**

_**I fight in this war in the hope that we can return to that happier time.**_

_**I can see you weren't evil, or manipulative, just ignorant and a bit too trusting.**_

**_Can I leave the Dursleys early this year? They really aren't feeding me, or talking to me. I preferred them when they were threatened by Sirius' mass-murderer status. I never did tell them he was innocent… oh well. I haven't told them he's dead yet, either._**

**_I haven't changed my views on Sirius' death, but that may or may not come with time. It is hard to think that he'll never write to me again with those huge tropical birds of his. I've come to like Fawkes quite a lot in the time he's spent here though. His presence is comforting._**

**_It's nice to know you hate the prestige of defeating various Dark Lords too. I really wouldn't want to be Minister either, that's a job for a bureaucrat, which neither of us is. You are just a man, as you have said countless times, prophecy or no; I'm just a scrawny nearly-sixteen year old kid._**

**_I wanted to know – when did you put me into your will? And since when am I Harry Potter-Black? Will the Goblins call me to a will reading for Sirius or so forth?_**

_**I will accept the duties of the Head of House Dumbledore, as I will with the Headship of House Black and the Headship of House Potter. So I speak, so I intend.**_

"_So let it be done," _Harry whispered as he wrote. It was comforting to write to a listening ear that would not judge him for who he was.

_**Please tell me I'll never have to do Occlumency lessons with Snape again. That situation was FUBAR – fouled up beyond all recall – before I even stepped into his office. He hates me, I hate him, and so the world goes round. **_

_**It's part of the three things that I know will never change. One, the Dursleys will always hate me, magic, and you for leaving me with them. Two, Voldemort will always hate me for destroying him once, twice, and three times, and will therefore attempt to kill me at every turn. Three, Snape will always hate James Potter, he will always hate me for being James Potter's son, and he will always make his robes flutter so he looks more 'imposing.' I think he looks like an overgrown bat.**_

_**Don't tell him I said that.**_

_**I'd take physical defense lessons with Remus, or Transfiguration from Professor McGonagall, or Charms from Professor Flitwick, but there is a snowflake's chance in an inferno that Snape and I will ever cool off enough to be anything other than civil to each other, and maybe not even then.**_

_**I've decided I abhor the Ministry, and working for it, so if you are in need of a DADA teacher in the years to come, I'd be happy to help you out. I don't know if you need a Mastery in it, though. Could you tell me in your next letter?**_

**_Have you ever read any of the poems by Robert Service? I found one I think you'd like. It's called the Law of the Yukon, after his experience there. I found in a book, _The Collected Poems of Robert Service, _that I found on Dudley's bookshelf. _**

_**Here it is:**_

_**THE LAW OF THE YUKON**_

This is the law of the Yukon, and ever she makes it plain:

"Send me not your foolish and feeble, send me your strong and your sane-

Strong for the red rage of battle; sane, for I harry them sore;

Send me men girt for combat, men who are grit to the core;

Swift as the panther in triumph, fierce as the bear in defeat,

Sired of a bulldog parent, steeled in the furnace heat.

Send me the best of your breeding, lend me your chosen ones;

Them I will take to my bosom, them I will call my sons;

Them I will gild with my treasure, them will I glut with my meat;

But the others – the misfits, the failures – I trample under my feet.

Dissolute, damned and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,

Ye would send me the spawn of your gutters – Go! Take back your spawn again.

"Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway;

From my ruthless throne I have ruled alone for a million years and a day;

Hugging my mighty treasure, waiting for man to come,

Till he swept like a turbid torrent, and after him swept – the scum.

The pallid pimp of the dead-line, the enervate of the pen,

One by one I weeded them out, for all that I sought was – Men.

One by one I dismayed them, frightening them sore with my glooms;

One by one I betrayed them unto my manifold dooms.

Drowned them like rats in my rivers, starved them like curs on my plains,

Rotted the flesh that was left them, poisoned the blood in their veins,

Burst with my winter upon them, searing forever their sight,

Lashed them with fungus-white faces, whimpering wild in the night;

"Staggering blind through the storm-whirl, stumbling mad through snow,

Frozen stiff in the ice-pack, brittle and bent like a bow;

Featureless, formless, forsaken, scented by wolves in their flight,

Left for the wind to make music through ribs that are glittering white;

Gnawing the black crust of failure, searching the pit of despair,

Crooking the toe in the trigger, trying to patter a prayer;

Going outside with an escort, raving with lips all afoam,

Writing a check for a million, driveling feebly of home;

Lost like a louse in the burning…or else in the tented town

Seeing a drunkard's solace, sinking and sinking down;

Steeped in the slime at the bottom, dead to the decent world;

Lost 'mid the human flotsam, far on the frontier hurled;

In the camp at the bend of the river, with its dozen saloons aglare,

Its gambling dens ariot, its gramophones all ablare,

Crimped with the crimes of a city, sin-riddled and bridled with lies,

In the hush of my mountained vastness, in the flush of my midnight skies.

Plague-spots, yet tools of my purpose, so natheless I suffer them thrive,

Crushing my Weak in their clutches, that only my Strong may survive.

"But the others, the men of my mettle, the men would 'stablish my fame,

Unto its ultimate issue, winning me honor, not shame;

Searching my uttermost valleys, fighting each step as they go,

Shooting the wrath of my rapids, scaling my ramparts of snow;

Ripping the guts of my mountains, looting the beds of my creeks,

Them I will take to my bosom, and speak as a mother speaks.

I am the land that listens, I am the land that broods;

Steeped in eternal beauty, crystalline waters and woods.

Long have I waited lonely, shunned as a thing accursed,

Monstrous, moody, pathetic, the last of the lands and the first;

Visioning campfires and twilight, sad with a longing forlorn,

Feeling my womb o'er-pregnant with the seed of cities unborn,

Wild and wide are my borders, stern as death is my sway,

And I wait for the men who will win me – and I will not be won in a day;

And I will not be won by weaklings, subtle, suave and mild,

But by men with the hearts of Vikings, and the simple faith of a child;

Desperate, strong and resistless, unthrottled by fear or defeat,

Them will I gild with my treasure, them I will glut with my meat.

"Lofty I stand from each sister land, patient and wearily wise,

With the weight of a world of sadness in my quiet passionless eyes;

Dreaming alone of a people, dreaming alone of a day,

When men shall not rape my riches, and curse me and go away;

Making a bawd of my bounty, fouling the hand that gave –

Till I rise in my wrath and I sweep them on their path and I stamp them, into a grave.

Dreaming of men who will bless me, of women esteeming me good,

Of children born in my borders of radiant motherhood,

Of cities leaping to stature, of fame like a flag unfurled,

As I pour the tide of my riches in the eager lap if the world."

This is the Law of the Yukon, that only the Strong shall thrive;

That surely the Weak shall perish, and only the Fit survive.

Dissolute, damned, and despairful, crippled and palsied and slain,

This is the Will of the Yukon – Lo, how she makes it plain!

**_I have found this a very good poem to describe how I've been raised. Loved one moment, hated the next. But eventually I will prove that I am one of the Strong, and life will allow me to live as I see fit, no longer bound to a prophecy. It's what keeps me going. _**

_**I must remember to train, but I must also remember to live.**_

**_It's hard to live, though, when all I've known is a cage, from my cupboard to my fame, from my gifts to my detrimental qualities._**

_**I haven't forgiven you for leaving me with the Dursleys, Professor, even if I've forgiven everything else. I hope that will end in time, for both our sakes.**_

_**Love,**_

_**Harry**_


End file.
